


Truth or Stem?

by execute



Category: Upgrade (2018)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Existential Crisis, Existentialism, F/M, Gen, M/M, Not A Fix-It, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, a lot of arguments, and it will be ugly, big ideas here folks, i'm just a little obsessed, more like a make it worse, sass level over 9000, what does it mean to be human, what is reality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-08 17:55:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15935417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/execute/pseuds/execute
Summary: Grey can’t really discern it. It’s not an observation that can be explained in words. There’s just something there he can’t name, something he can’t really even fathom.Sometimes, Grey wakes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, I'm not late for once. I'm thinking this will update every two weeks on Saturday.  
> Enjoy, friends!

Days pass. Seven of them pass; a week goes by in a grateful haze. Asha is there almost always. She spends every waking minute with him that she doesn’t have to spend at work. The doctors arrive and dote (okay, maybe that’s too strong a word) on how well Grey is doing. They review his notes and make him endure mindless small talk—you’ll be out of here before fall, I’m sure the trees at Minors Park will be beautiful this year. He’s a miracle case, they say, and they shake their heads at Grey’s own disbelief, as if they had an idea what those days spent in his mind had done to him. They laugh as if all is well, as if a coma was a minor impediment and it was only a matter of days before he’d snap awake. As if everything was a best-case-scenario.

            Asha had said they had an accident but she doesn’t elaborate any more on it. She ducks the questions when he poses them, her eyes locked on her shoes.

            “I don’t want to talk about it,” she says, and so Grey doesn’t push her. She was there, too, after all. In the wreck. She makes it clear when she reaches out one night, over the tray of hospital food and printed pizza Grey can’t bring himself to get tired of. Her gaze locks with his and her eyes roam his face like she’s looking at her favorite painting for the millionth time. Nothing escapes her notice. “I thought I, I almost lost you. I just… don’t want to go back to then. We’re here, now. Both of us. We’re both fine. Let’s not pretend there was any different outcome. ”

            The emotion in her voice is wrenching. Her eyes glitter with tears, though she smiles, just for him. With her silhouette highlighted by the glittering skyline outside, there’s no question in Grey’s mind that she’s there, beside him. Safe. And he, well, he squeezes her hand back. The action is answer enough itself.

            So, Grey doesn’t ask her again. If Asha wants to move on, he’ll let her. Logic says that he, too, should move on, but… The doctors tell him vivid dreams are common, that there’s nothing abnormal about experiencing sensations while in a coma. He even lets his mother force him to endure a shrink; after all she’s gone through with his health, it seems the least he can do. And, there’s a little comfort in knowing that if he is insane, there are people who can confirm it. That he’s not doomed to rot inside his own mind for eternity, that even if he isn’t as okay as everyone thinks he is, there are steps to be taken. And he can walk them himself.

            The psychiatrist’s visit is short and blunt. She’s a squat woman of maybe forty-five, with a stern face and glasses that are too round for her features. She has a rigid smile that speaks more of protocol than genuine emotion, and the coldness in her presence immediately puts Grey on edge. But she conducts her evaluation quickly and efficiently and after she’s gone Grey feels like a five-year-old with a golden star that says “certified not crazy” stuck to his chest.

            Two days later, he goes home. He looks over his shoulder as they escort him from his room—wheelchair be damned. He looks back to the hospital bed where he’d spent the last two weeks dreaming about murder and losing control. He doesn’t look back for long.

            Outside of the lobby, Asha pauses before a new car, leaning against the passenger side and patting the hood.

            “Insurance paid off after all,” she says with a laugh.

            “That’s not an electric—”

            “Okay, so maybe I’m with you now on the experimental technology thing. Maybe they haven’t perfected self-driving cars yet. Maybe I got a little tired of Kara alerting me each time my blood pressure rose in traffic.” Asha smiles, but there’s something hidden there, something that looks a little like fear. And Grey is all the more thankful for it. They get in and the only thing they’re greeted with is the turn-over of the engine.

            The house is… a different story.

            **“WELCOME HOME ASHA. WELCOME HOME GREY. THE CURRENT INVENTORY OF INGREDIENTS IS INSUFFICIENT TO PREPARE A HOME COOKED MEAL. WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO ORDER YOUR FAVORITE FOR DINNER?”**

            Grey flinches at Kara’s voice. It’s too mechanical, too near to another voice Grey is still trying hard to forget. From the corner of his eye, Grey sees Asha frown. She sighs over the counter and takes off her purse. It thumps heavily on the marble.

            “I haven’t bought groceries in a while,” she admits. “Between visiting you and work I just haven’t had the time to cook. Why buy food if I’m not going to make it?”

            “Honey that’s… I don’t even know why you’d think I’d be mad at that.”

            Asha catches his gaze and traps it. The flicker of worry disappears. She’s the first one to laugh and Grey soon follows her example. It feels good. It feels great. _Fucking_ great.

            He’s home. Finally.

            “Kara,” Grey says, even as his feet carry him toward a still giggling Asha. “Order Chinese.”

            **“ORDERING CHINESE FROM PANDA PALACE ON 4414 JEFFERSON AVENUE, LOT 46B.”**

They’re up against the counter, pressed chest to chest, heart to heart. Just like before. Just like always. Forever. Asha’s lips are warm under Grey’s touch. He glides his thumb over them, content to get lost in her eyes. Asha smiles and nuzzles into his grip, solely focused on him. Her breaths reach his cheeks. He rubs their noses together.

            This. This feeling. It can’t be anything but real.

            They slip into bed together after dinner, though it’s apparent the only thing they’ll be doing is sleeping. Grey _is_ tired, though it’s kind of an injustice (what’s he tired from, riding in the car?). But Asha collapses equally as exhausted next to him and so he settles for holding her tight. He corrects himself, though, right before drifting off to sleep—he isn’t settling. He’d give anything in the world just to keep her next to him, just like this.

            The first thought of the morning was, for all intents and purposes, to get on with his life. Grey wakes to Asha’s alarm and gently shakes her. She groans into his chest and twists his shirt in her fists, but acquiesces with, “M-okay, kay. I’m gettin’ up. I’m goin’.”        

She slides off of him and out from under the covers. Her hair is tangled, yesterday’s makeup is still smeared across her eyelids, and there’s a crusty white line down the side of her mouth that had, at one time, ended on Grey’s shirt. He smiles.

            “Morning, beautiful.”

            “Ugh, just, I haven’t even had my coffee yet.” Asha sneezes on her way to the bathroom. “Kara, start my coffee.”

            **“STARTING COFFEE.”**

            Elsewhere in the house, appliances ready themselves for the day’s use. Even their newfound creepy factor can’t tear Grey’s eyes away from Asha, who ambles into the bathroom, still waking up. The coffee pot drips in the kitchen and the shower thunders out from the bathroom. Grey lies in his bed—their bed, their actual bed, not some hospital edition tailored for a quadriplegic, with a railing like a crib and covered in thick pillows so he wouldn’t choke. He lifts his hands above the covers and then smooths them down at his sides. Is that not feeling? Of course it is. This is real. This is _real._

            Right?

            Tentatively, quietly, with his throat constricting around the very sound, Grey whispers, “Stem?”

            The shower runs. The coffee pot drips on. Grey leans back into the pillows and closes his eyes. It was just a dream, just a terrible, awful—

            “Babe?”

            Grey jolts upright, sweat blooming on his brow. He looks around again, frantic. Where’s he at? Where’s he at? Is this… he raises his hands to his face and inspects them. He curls and uncurls his fingers. The coffee maker beeps in the kitchen.

            “Babe?”

            “Yeah?” Grey can’t keep the tremor from his voice. He clears his throat. “Yeah? Asha?”

            “Can you grab me a towel from the closet? I forgot I washed the other one.”

            Grey pauses and allows his breathing to even out. He nods to himself, once, twice. He lifts the covers and slides out of bed, relishing the feeling of his bare feet on the floor. He pushes himself up so that he’s standing; he keeps his right arm on the bed. It’s stupid. He’s not going to fall. He’s not paralyzed. He’s him, complete. Just him. Just Grey.

            “Sure thing, hon.” He lifts his hand from the mattress. He still stands tall as ever. “Be right there.”

            Later, Asha gazes over the rim of her coffee and frowns. She’s put-together now, her hair tied back in a bun, a few wispy strands left down around her face. Even with the makeup, it is apparent she has dark circles under her eyes. He knows it’s because of him; Grey’s heart throbs in his chest.

            “You know, I really wish I could stay home with you.”

            “Baby, don’t feel like, like you need to baby me.” Grey flashes her a smile and hopes it appears more genuine than he thinks it is.

            “Contract renewal season came early this year. You know how the government is about paperwork. All day long they send me pdf files. There’s never anything intelligible about them. It’s just a bunch of legal gibberish and then a ‘you understand that by signing you consent to the prospect of federal suspension should any of the following occur,’ blah, blah, blah.” Asha stretches out her arms in front of her, scooting the mug across the island. She rests her forehead on the edge and gives a long sigh. Grey wraps her hands in his own. She looks up.

            “I’m not mad. I’m not gonna’ be mad. You do whacha gotta’ do, babe. Remember what I told you right before we dropped that car off?” Grey doesn’t mention Eron on purpose. Thinking about him makes the nightmare seem closer, brings those memories back to the fore. And yet, Grey searches Asha’s face for recognition and finds none. He continues, trying not to choke, “You remember, when we dropped that car off at Eron’s place?”

            Asha’s eyes go unfocused. Her lips part, the movement tiny, barely perceptible. The muscles in her face relax. She looks… fake, odd, hollow, fleeting? The change takes place in what must be a second, but Grey’s heart is beating so quick in his chest he thinks he could see a fly bat its wings. His throat goes dry. _Come on, Asha, come on, don’t you remember?_ Why wouldn’t she remember?

            And then, “Oh, yeah. When you bet money that you could get my bossy, breadwinner pants off me?” Her voice is teasing, her face normal. She shakes her head and draws back, slipping her hands from his touch. She finishes her coffee and then stretches. Her pastel peach shirt slides up to expose her belly. Grey stares at the table and Asha finishes her stretch with a yawn. In his peripheral vision, Grey sees her check her watch. Just as she directs her attention back to him, Kara’s voice fills the house.

            **“GOOD MORNING, ASHA. FREEWAY TRAFFIC DENSITY IS AT MEDIUM, ALTHOUGH THE NUMBER OF DRIVERS ON THE ROAD IS PROJECTED TO INCREASE BY FIVE PERCENT IN THE NEXT TEN MINUTES.”**

Asha groans and rubs her palms into the hollows of her eyes. Then she groans again and squints at Grey.

            “Did I just mess up my makeup?”

            Grey doesn’t know why it’s so hard to meet her eyes. She’d just forgotten, that’s all. She’s tired. She’s stayed up countless hours, for you. For _you_. Grey nods and stammers, “No, no it’s fine.”

            “Okay, well I guess I better get going. I… really Grey, I want to stay home. I want to stay here so bad.”

            “No, no. Go to work.” Grey manages a smile. “Don’t worry about me. I think I could use some time alone, actually.”

            Asha is not completely sold on the idea. Her brows crease together in concern, the little wrinkle between them broadcasting that she knows his comment was a cop-out. She licks her lips but her next sigh is one of acceptance.

            “I’ll call you at noon, okay?”

            “Okay, honey. Really though, you don’t need to worry about me this much.”

            Asha rounds the island and draws him into a hug. She says into the muscle of his chest, “It’s just because I love you.” She pulls back and plants a kiss to his shoulder. “I’m so glad you’re home.”

            Grey eases into her touch and musters a chuckle. Her affection is too warm, too genuine. Guilt settles heavy in his stomach. To think for a moment he didn’t trust her—his wife! Asha, beautiful, _real_ Asha. He kisses her neck, her hairline.

            “Stop, hey, stop! You’re going to mess up my hair!” Asha’s protests are free of any actual discontent and she squirms against him, laughing and nipping herself.

            “Alright, alright. Off to work you go.” Grey releases her with a kiss to her forehead and Asha shoots him an apologetic glance. She takes up her purse and fishes for her keys, still smiling, still flushed.

            “Could you make a list for Kara and ask her to order groceries?”

            Grey blanches a little at the thought of the machine but nods. “Yep. Of course.”

            “What would I do without you?” Asha asks. The words hang in the air, their weight heavier than it should be. Asha senses it and blinks in recognition of the fact that she _does_ know, now, what it would be like without him. And Grey knows what it would be like without… her.

            “I gotta’ run, baby. I love you!” Asha gives one last squeeze to Grey’s arm before turning away. “Kara, open the garage door.”

            **“OPENING GARAGE DOOR.”**

Grey watches her go, fighting the sinking feeling that threatens to wash over him. The garage door rumbles open—he’ll need to grease it up, at some point.

            “I love you too!” He calls, and Asha turns to wave a quick goodbye. Then the engine starts up. Then it grows fainter. Grey imagines her backing out of the driveway, turning, heading north, and exiting onto the freeway. He tries not to imagine all the grisly deaths that could occur in that time, but he does anyway. He’s suddenly aware of being alone in the kitchen, alone in the house. Water drips from one of Asha’s displays. Its sound echoes.

            “Kara?”

            **“YES, GREY?”**

            “Close the garage door.”

            **“CLOSING GARAGE DOOR.”**

“And Kara?”

            **“YES, GREY?”**

“What groceries do we buy the most?”

            **“ACCORDING TO MY DATA, THE FOOD ITEMS MOST OFTEN PURCHASED INCLUDE BREAD, EGGS, MILK, BUTTER—”**

“Okay, okay, just, can you make a list of that? Don’t read it out loud.”

**“LIST COMPILED.”**

“Alright, order the top thirty things on that list.”

            **“GROCERY ORDER PLACED.”**

            Grey lets loose a breath he had not realized he’d been holding. The electronic voice sets him on edge more than he would like to admit. He walks to the couch and sits delicately on the cushion, like he might break it, or it might disappear. He rests his elbows on his knees and rubs his face with his hands.

            He should feel good, right? He should feel great. He’s alive. _Asha_ is alive. He’s home and everything is fine. Except…

            “Doc said I’m not insane,” Grey murmurs, as if trying to convince the doubt in his head. “That counts for something, right? It should count for a lot.”

            **“I’M SORRY, GREY. I DID NOT CATCH THAT. DID YOU SAY <<COUNTDOWN>>?”**

“Oh, fuck me.”

            **“I’M SORRY, GREY. I DID NOT CATCH—”**

“Turn off! Just turn the fuck off!”

**“AWAITING CONFIRMATION. DID YOU SAY <<SHUTDOWN>>?”**

“Yes, yes I did! Shut down!”

The quiet whirring of Kara’s processors slows and then stops. Grey leans his head back on the couch and stares up at the ceiling. There’s a muted parade of colors coming from one of the inset lights. He watches the blue turn to purple, then pink, then red. The house is quiet. Everything is quiet. He feels like a kid again, home alone for the first time, wanting to touch everything and nothing, relishing the silence and hating it. What reason does he have to feel so out of place in _his_ _own goddamn house_? Maybe, logic tells him, it’s because it’s uncanny. Because he feels there should be things where there aren’t, like his hospice bed and wheelchair charging pad.

            It is spite, not curiosity, which drives Grey to his feet. He just has to make sure things won’t change, that they didn’t already. He has to prove that irrational part of his brain that no, his dreams weren’t reality and it’s dangerous to believe they could be. And while their bed is messy and unmade, it’s a bed for two, not a single invalid. And the square on the hallway floor is a rug, not a charging pad. The shadows on the counter are not robotic arms installed to prepare him “protein shakes.” This is his house, truly, and Grey smiles at the realization. He spins in a circle, nodding in approval, before he follows Asha’s path into the garage.

            Okay, yeah. This is home.

            His workshop is strewn about him, but that’s due to his own fault, of course. It does look a little messier seeing it with fresh eyes, and Grey huffs out a laugh. At least he has something to do today.

            The next five minutes are spent grouping his tools into a bigger pile to sort through all at once. He debates turning music on, but he can’t remember what record was in and his mood is strange, somewhere between melancholy and relieved. That kind of music isn’t likely what he was last working on the Firebird to. He’s not willing to record hunt and organize in one day, and, to be honest, the silence is comforting. After all he’s been through it might seem strange to want to sit all alone with his thoughts, but his workshop has always been a physical _and_ mental oasis. He’s feeling better now, yeah, but there’s _something_ he needs to work out in his brain. He can’t really discern what it is. It’s an almost-observation, something only apparent in the back of his mind, the corners of his vision, some part of something that’s just… off.

            Grey scoffs and pauses to survey his newly made piles.

            “That sounds fucking dramatic, doesn’t it?”

            He reaches out and pulls one of the toolbox drawers open. His eyes drift in the rhythm of work, and then snap back. He drops the wrench in his hand. He stares.

            There is nothing in the toolbox drawer. Honest to god nothing. Not just _no tools_. Nothing. It isn’t even a black space, a gaping hole. It’s just… incomplete. An absence. Where there was matter, ideas, concepts, there’s nothing. Nothing in the toolbox drawer.

            Grey slams it closed and lowers himself to his knees on the garage floor. He can’t decide if he wants to cry or scream. Or both. The earlier feelings of utter _wrongness_ come on in waves until Grey is tired and panting, his hands wound in his hair.

            Should he call Asha? No, no no no. What if she’s not real either? He can’t see that. He can’t witness it. No, no. He can’t see her reduced to that indescribable void in the toolbox drawer. That would be… no.

            Slowly, Grey lifts himself to his feet, surprised he still can. Any moment he expects to feel the jerk of his body revolting, his nerves all falling dead, reducing him to a prisoner locked in the tiny cell of his skull. But it doesn’t happen. He grips the ledge of the table for support and reaches out again for the drawer. He has to be sure—absolutely sure.

            His fingers close around the handle. He pulls.

            There are at least fifty different pliers and small Phillips head screwdrivers as well as a healthy dose of mangled duct tape rolls.

            Grey stares. He swallows. He shuts the drawer and opens it again.

            Pliers. Screwdrivers. Tape.

            He closes the drawer and leaves the garage. His feet carry him in the direction of the couch but his only coherent thought is: away. He curls up in the farthest corner, drawing the pillows to him as if they could save him from that… what? Non-reality? What the fuck even was that?

            On the wall, the projected clock reads 8:43 AM.

            Grey turns his face to the garage door, adopting the role of sentry.

            And he sits. And sits.

            Asha calls at 12:03 PM and the ringing jolts Grey out of his stupor. He fumbles around with the earpiece, unwilling to video call.

            _“How’s it going, Mr. Stay-at-home?”_

Grey tells himself to breathe.

            “Oh, it’s going. I’m fine, I think.”

            _“You think?”_

There’s a sudden debate over the thought of confessing to Asha about the… hallucination. He should, because she’s his wife, and he’s obviously very sick, and he probably needs a lot of goddamned help. He shouldn’t because this world feels like it’s being held up by nothing but very thin glass and the slightest mistake on his part would collapse the whole thing around him. Again.

            “I, ah, thought I could go out and work in the garage a bit. Tidy up, you know. But I guess I’m not used to being out of bed yet.”

            Asha’s end is silent and Grey almost panics. Then, Asha sucks in a breath.

            _“You gotta’ give yourself a while. You can’t expect to come out of something like that without, I don’t know, a necessary resting period.”_

            So she believes him. Good. But…

            “What, what do you mean, ‘something like that?’”

            _“I meant the accident, Grey.”_

“Yeah but, how bad was it? You say that like it was...”

            “Grey, I do not want to talk about it.” Asha’s tone is definite. Even if Grey had been in better shape he normally wouldn’t have argued with her when she sounded like that. But there’s an all-pervasive fear threatening to swallow him whole. There’s a lot he doesn’t know.

            So he asks, “Is there something you’re not telling me, Asha?”

            _“Don’t be stupid. Have I ever lied to you? Why do you think I’d start now of all times?”_

That’s that. Grey sighs and tries to placate his anxiety. He chooses his words slowly, carefully.

            “Alright. I’m sorry. I’ll, I’ll take it easy for a while. From now on.”

            _“Promise?”_

There’s that emotion again. There’s no way in hell it’s fake. There is so much in that one word: love, dedication, worry. And it’s Asha’s voice speaking it, to him, over the phone, in their remarkably normal living room, where the only thing out of place is Grey, hiding like a child behind a pillow fort.

            “I promise.”

            _“Okay, okay.”_ Asha breathes deeply, the sound staticy. _“I might have to work late tonight.”_

“Oh, that’s…” Grey feels a little crestfallen and he’s sure Asha can hear it in his voice. “That’s fine. You’re needed. I’m proud of you.”

            _“They only need me because I’m the only one dumb enough to stick around doing this.”_

“Don’t be dramatic. You love it.”

            Asha laughs, quiet and tamed for the workplace. _“Yeah, yeah I guess I do.”_

“Then let yourself enjoy it. I’m doing fine. I’ve learned my limits.”

            _“You’ll never learn your limits.”_

“Hey, some people might say that’s part of my charm.”

            _“Ugh, I can hear the_ wink _in your voice!”_

“You love that, too. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

            _“You’re smooth, for a greasy mechanic, you know that?”_

“You’d know that better than I would, babe.”

            _“Oh my god you’re going to give me a headache.”_

“Well we wouldn’t want that, now would we?”

            _“Let me eat my lunch, Grey!”_

“You called me!”

            Asha singsongs over the line, _“Goodbye, Grey.”_

“Goodbye, wifey.”

            _“God you’re incorrigible.”_

“You chose me.”

            _“I’ll see you at home. Love you.”_

“Love you.”

            Silence settles again, but Grey tells himself it’s different, this time. He tells himself the house isn’t _that_ big, _that_ empty, and he isn’t _that_ crazy. And, believe it or not, he manages to last on the philosophy until the garage door rattles up and Asha comes home. He manages, even, when he goes out to the garage to greet her (though he doesn’t look in the direction of the drawer). He manages the rest of the evening, when they unpack the groceries and try to decide what to make. It lasts when Asha turns Kara back on (she’s here to help, you know), lasts until they crawl into bed and tangle themselves in each other’s tired arms.

            Grey closes his eyes, supplicated with Asha’s touch and nearness. He drifts off, the dark behind his eyelids growing ever darker.

            When he opens them again, he’s somewhere else entirely.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when Grey takes matters into his own hands? Also, Jake from State Farm? I raise you Raina from Vessel.

The ceiling above him is rusted. Veins of flaky red spread out across the metal in a fan shape. It reminds Grey of nerves, of what’s inside a body.

            In the center of the room is a desk and on the desk is a lamp. Its light is thick and yellow and projects a glowing circle onto the rust covered ceiling. Something is buzzing and Grey guesses it is the lamp; the thing’s old enough that his mother probably wouldn’t remember it. But the sound is pervasive, almost as if the walls themselves are buzzing, or if everything in the room is. It is almost quiet enough to tune out, but just loud enough to drive somebody insane. Grey pushes away the thought that surfaces—it’s supposed to drive _him_ insane.

            He sits up. Or he tries. The muscles in his neck strain and he sees spots before his eyes. He falls back onto the bed with a groan and a sob.

            This shouldn’t be happening. Oh please, let this not be happening.

            Grey swivels his gaze around, taking notice of anything worthwhile. The nightstand has a drawer and the drawer is pulled open just a fraction. Grey squints. It looks like a pile of papers, neatly arranged. No, _perfectly_ arranged.

            He swallows heavily, the action requiring much more force than usual.

            There is nothing on the walls and nothing against them. There is a box at the foot of his bed, but he can’t quite make out its size or real position. The light from the lamp doesn’t go far and the edges of the room dissolve into shadow. Lined up exactly with the nightstand is a small hallway that divides the room. His bed is pushed up against the far-left side. There is darkness before him and darkness to his right, but if the room makes any sort of architectural sense, there should probably be a door down that hall. The issue is getting to it, because, as of right now, Grey can’t.

            He puffs out a breath and lowers his head to the pillow once again.

            _Please, please, please, just let this be a dream._

            And it is.

            Grey wakes to Asha squirming out of his grip and the annoying bell-jingle of her alarm. He lets her go and she plants a kiss to his forehead before crawling out of bed. Grey keeps his arm spread across her side of the bed as she retreats, as the shower starts, and even when she comes out looking picture perfect.

            “Ugh, you haven’t moved at all! Come on, are you going to get up?”

            Grey doesn’t want to speak. He doesn’t want to move. He doesn’t want to do anything because this could all disappear in a second and he could be back in that room, helpless and alone. His silence stretches on for too long, and Asha’s energy changes.

            “Hey, babe. Are you okay?” Joking gives way to genuine concern and Asha crawls back onto the bed. She rolls him off his stomach and Grey lets her. Her hands are hot on his skin; he guesses his is cold and clammy to hers. “Honey?”

            The fear in his stomach refuses to settle. He lurches over the side of the bed and vomits. The milky, liquid contents of his stomach splatter on the floor below. And he retches. He strains until there’s nothing left and Asha’s calling his name and her hands are on his shoulders. The spell calms and Asha pushes him back onto the bed, wiping his mouth and chin with the bedsheet.

            “Grey, can you hear me? Do you want to call an ambulance?”

            Grey croaks an answer and then pushes her hand away to cough.

            “No, no. I’m fine.”

            “You’re not fine! You just—”

            “I had a nightmare.”

            Asha pauses and looks at him disbelievingly. She’s hovering over him, terrified, and the sheer worry in her eyes is a horrible sight to see. Grey shifts himself up and takes her hands.

            “I’m alright, I’m alright,” he says, as if the repetition could convince him, too. He’s still shaking and Asha’s eyes are wide, but the sunlight here seems more real than the lamplight, her nearness more real than his paralysis. With a sigh, he begins to calm. Asha strokes his hair.

            “It was just the sleep and waking thing,”

            “You thought you were still in a coma?”

            “Yeah,” Grey whispers. “Something like that.”

            “I’ll call the doctor. That doesn’t seem too strange, but—”

            “No, don’t call. I’m fine, really.”

            Asha pinches her lips together and Grey realizes that he’s been doing nothing but lie to his wife for about two days now. Every time she’d asked him if he’s fine, if he’s okay, and he’d answered with a strained smile or a nod, that had been a lie. Every second he didn’t tell her about the strange sense of déjà vu or the hallucination, he’d been lying. And now, lying in bed with his vomit putrefying on the floor, he’s lying to her, because he can’t tell her what he saw.

            Her eyes above him remind him of the last time she stared at him, pleading, so, so scared, sprawled in the dust and bleeding out. And that is a sight he does not want to see.

            “Look, look, I’m getting up.” Grey groans and untangles himself from the sheets. Asha backs up and he gets out of bed. He expects his steps to be shaky, his balance unstable, but he yawns and stands and thinks he’d feel fine if it wasn’t for the obsessive loop running through his head—there’s just something amiss. Asha sighs and Grey works up the courage to admit that maybe it isn’t the world that’s wrong. Maybe it’s him.

            Asha only leaves after telling him five times not to turn Kara off and ten times that it’s finally Friday and that means no work tomorrow—which means they can spend time together for the first time in what seems like an eternity. And that Grey won’t be alone.

            “I’m calling you at lunch again,”

            “Yes ma’am!”

            And then she’s gone.

            Grey wavers on the threshold of the garage. He watches her car drive away, sees her wave before she’s out of sight. He shakes his head.

            “She’s going to be fine. Everything’s fine.” _Except me,_ he adds in his mind. He turns again to survey his workspace. It’s lighter with the door open. It looks different, less ominous. The piles of tools he sorted yesterday glare at him for their neglect. Maybe if he kept the door open it would seem less… horrifying.

            This time, Grey plays music. He forces his mood to match it. It takes a few moments to work up the courage to open the toolbox drawer, but he does, and there’s nothing strange about it. He opens all of the drawers and there’s nothing wrong with any of them.

            He goes back in the house at 11:55 AM and closes the door via the manual button, not Kara. It’s still warm out even though it’s the middle of September, and Grey wipes his face on his shirtsleeve as he walks in. He is a little tired, and that’s good.

            “Can you cool it down, Kara?”

            **“LOWERING TEMPERATURE TO 70 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT.”**

Her voice still makes him jittery but he does make an effort to shake it off as he enters the kitchen. He swings open the fridge and scans its contents. There’s no beer, so he settles for juice. It’s probably a bad idea to drink alcohol right after waking up from a coma anyway, or something. He really doesn’t know.

            It’s 12:02 PM and Asha calls.

            He’s better today, and he tells her so. She chastises him about knowing his limits again when he admits he finished up in the garage.

            _“You, ugh. Some people never learn, Grey, and you’re one of them.”_

“I’m stalwart, an unmovable mountain. I’m a, a rock in the path.”

            _“Actually, you know what? You_ are _a rock in my path.”_

            The jibs continue throughout their call, but it’s apparent that the worries of the morning are over. Asha chatters about the filework and about her colleagues. She’s done extremely well for herself and she’s very respected at Cobolt, but Asha’s success always depended on her sense of demand. She knew where it was, how to find it, and how to employ it. She expects a lot from people; not all people are willing to give that.

            “She’s an intern, babe. She’ll learn. You gotta’ cut her some slack.”

            _“When I was her age I would have been jumping on every opportunity offered to me, not refuse them because, get this, it’s a lot of responsibility.”_

“Well what does that make you, then, huh? Fifty? Eighty?”

            _“Oh shut up!”_

            Grey misses her voice as soon as they say goodbye. He plucks the phone from his ear and sets it on the counter. He loads the dishwasher with the lunch dishes and then walks to the couch. He stands before it and because of what he’s thinking, what he’s contemplating, its shape is daunting. The principle is simple: Grey sees different things when he goes to sleep. In order to learn _why_ and _how_ he sees different things, he has to sleep.

            “I’m terrified of a goddamn nap.” Nothing in the surrounding emptiness answers.

            Grey sits on the couch and rubs his knees with his hands. He can do this. It’s just a dream—except that’s the thing. When he’s there it feels so real. There’s no dream haze that he sees things in, no naïve, strange additions like floating clowns or giant teddy bears. The world he slips into is gritty, solid. When he’s there everything screams at him that it is real. It feels real. But so does this.

            “It’s just a nap, just a nap.”

            His fit is kind of awkward and he bunches the decorative pillow under his head. He pulls a throw off the back of the couch; it’s a little too short but he makes due. He stares off into the distance, watching Asha’s displays spin. _It’s just a nap,_ he repeats over and over. But deep down, he knows it is no such thing.

            It takes a half hour. He doesn’t move, fearful of breaking the atmosphere, of pushing sleep away for good. He also doesn’t move because he’s afraid he might find he can’t. He remains still, curled on his side, and after a half hour his eyes do grow heavy. After a half hour, he sleeps.

            His theory is right.

            Grey opens his eyes again to find the same room, decorated in darkness. He’s on his side, though, not his back. He faces the middle of the room, the nightstand and the lamp.

            The drawer is open.

            The papers are gone.

            Someone else was here. Someone else knows of him. Hell, maybe they have even seen him on the bed, a vegetable—if that’s how this whole thing works. Grey scoffs and shakes his head (it’s the only movement he can do anyway). He redirects his thoughts to the papers. Number one is what the hell are they, and two…

            Grey angles his head down to stare at the bed. Next to him are piles of paper.

            “Well fuck me.”

            Right after he says it he tenses (the best he can). He sweeps his gaze around but he can’t see any cameras, not in that darkness. He doesn’t hear anything, either. No footsteps approach the hidden door. None move in from the shadows. Grey decides to stay silent anyway.

            The papers are arranged in three piles. The middle one is face down. The other two contain lines and lines of—Grey squints and his eyes ache from the position—dialogue? He scoots his head across the pillow. It’s a minimal movement but it does help, or at least he tells himself so.

            The print on the pages is hard to read. It’s small and written in a font that oozes a sense of artificiality, of the digital. All hard angles and no variation. It’s organized like a script, a conversation between people. Two, it looks like. Grey forces himself a little closer, thankful for the slick sheets. He focuses on the pile nearest to him and he gets one word.

            **“CALL FROM: PAMELA TRACE, MOTHER.”**

            Grey jolts awake to his mother’s ringtone echoing through the house. The room disappears. The papers disappear. He’s on the couch again, home. He rubs his eyes and fumbles out of the blanket. He swipes the piece up and into his ear in one clumsy motion.

            “Hey, Mom.”

            _“Hello, dear. I hope I’m not bothering you. I just wanted to check up on you now that you’ve had a day to adjust to being home.”_

Grey looks around. Perhaps he has adjusted. The house doesn’t exude such a fearsome aura anymore. He doesn’t dread the quiet. His current apprehension is rooted in his mind, not the physical. Though he’s no longer dreaming, the room feels like it’s still there, coexisting here, close enough to reach out and touch. But also, not really. He’s _so_ fucked.

“I’m fine. Doing great actually. It’s great to be back home.”

            _“Oh, I’m glad to hear that.”_

Pause.

            “If I sound, I don’t know, groggy, I just woke up from a nap.”

            _“Oh, I didn’t wake you, did I?”_

“No, no you’re fine, ma.” Grey’s heart is still beating like a hammer in his chest.

            _“Well I won’t keep you, dear. Perhaps I can come over on Sunday. I have some errands to run anyway, if you don’t mind if I stop by.”_

“No, of course not!” Grey pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m sure Asha wants to see you again. And I do. It’s, it’s no problem. Come on by.”

            _“Alright, I’ll see you then. Make sure you get that beard trimmed or I’ll have to do it for you.”_

“Okay, ma. Bye.”

            The call ends. The earpiece issues a little click. Grey braces himself on the cool of the counter. The clock on the wall reads 3:24 PM. Grey presses his fingertip to the earpiece again. His voice doesn’t shake, but everywhere he looks, he sees that one word plastered over and over and over, the only clear word his mind could see: ERON.

            “Call Eron Keen.”

            The long wait on the line dampens the adrenaline pumping through Grey’s system. He answers question after question to a Kara-like voice. No, he’s not calling about a project (not yet). No, he’s not a promoter. Yes, he wants to speak to a goddamn person. The Kara-voice assures him an associate will be with him shortly. The toneless, meaningless music they play while he’s on hold reminds him on the buzzing in the dark room—it’s tailored to drive him insane. Grey watches the clock anxiously; he doesn’t want Asha to know. Not until he’s sure, and maybe not even then. He doesn’t want her to have to face this.

            _“Good afternoon, Vessel Computers. My name is Raina. How may I help you?”_

            “Hi, yeah, I want to talk to Eron Keen.”

            Uncomfortable silence stretches the length of the line.

            _“Sir I am unable to fulfill that request.”_

“Why?” Even Grey flinches at the roughness in his voice.

            _“Because I, I just can’t, sir. I don’t have the authority—”_

“Well can you find someone who does have that authority?” Grey is softer this time, but there’s no denying the urgency in his voice.

            _“I need some sort of statement…”_

“I sold him something, like, two weeks ago. I remembered something I didn’t tell him, about what I sold him. But because this was business I can’t disclose the exact details.” Grey thinks fast and the words that come out of his mouth make sense, however clunky they are, thank god.

            _“If you conducted business with Mr. Keen I assume he communicated via representative. I suggest you call that number, sir.”_

“Now, hey, wait a minute. It was more like one of those, we’ll call you, you don’t call us kind of things. I don’t have any numbers, lady.” His wit is working on overdrive and Grey stammers, “Don’t you think I’d try every other option before _this_? I know you call service people don’t have that kind of reach but it’s kinda’ a big deal and I’d really appreciate it if you transferred my call to someone who can help me.”

            Raina-from-Vessel is silent. Grey hears her breathing heavily over the line before she says, _“I’ll see what I can do, sir. Name and address, please.”_

            Grey breathes a sigh of relief and answers Raina’s questions. It irks him that they were the same ones the automated assistant asked him thirty minutes ago. Grey glances to the wall. Time’s running out. Raina tells him to stay on the line and then the awful music is back and Grey drops his head to the back of the couch. Minutes pass and he spends them motionless, staring at the ceiling.

            Finally, the music ceases. A voice says, _“Good afternoon, Mr. Trace. I’m Alexander Craine, departmental manager on duty. How can I help you today?”_

            “Hi, uh, Alex. Can you get a message to Eron Keen for me?”

            That damned, dreaded silence. It doesn’t last as long as Grey expects.

            _“I suppose I could do that, within reason.”_

            “Great, that’s uh, great.” Grey leans forward, digging his elbows into his thighs. It’s past four already. “He bought a car from me. Can you tell him that uh, I was cleaning up my garage and I found a part that really shouldn’t be in my garage. It should, well, be in the car. His car.”

            _“Is that it?”_

            “No, tell him too that I’m more than willing to come by and fix it all up, free of charge. And I didn’t let him know sooner because I had a car accident and I just got home from the hospital.”

            _“I’m terribly sorry to hear that, Mr. Trace. I hope everything is alright.”_ The manager’s words are careful, tempered for customers. Grey ignores them.

            “So you got that?”

            _“Yes, I’ll send it to Mr. Keen shortly.”_

“Thanks, man, I appreciate it. Also, I just, I hope he hasn’t driven it yet because I made it to his house but, you know, lookin’ back on it now it’s kinda a miracle it didn’t just die on me.”

            _“I’ll do what I can, Mr. Trace.”_

            Grey pulls the phone from his ear. His grin is one of triumph and relief. Granted, there’s no telling if Eron will be of any help—and really, this is a last resort kind of deal. If his “dreams” have any validity to them at all, Grey isn’t willing to stalk around New Crown to try and find the men who murdered his wife, in his head. Eron might be the bigger threat in the end, but he was at the heart of this long before Grey ever was—in both instances. And it didn’t turn out well for him; what Grey does know gives him the upper hand initially, but even so he’s ignorant in a lot of ways. He wants answers, and if there are answers, he will find them in Eron Keen. If not, then…

            “Then I’ve gone completely fucking insane.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to post this yesterday but it didn't happen. I'm also pretty sure a regular upload schedule is unattainable, but who knows, we'll see.  
> Thanks to everyone reading this!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grey gets a phone call...

Grey doesn’t dream that night. He expects to and prepares himself for that eventuality, but it never happens. He drifts off and actually sleeps, the time between his sleep and waking blissfully filled by nothing. He opens his eyes, refreshed despite himself. He even lets Asha convince him to stay in bed together, to try to “reclaim stolen time.”

            It’s nearly noon when they decide to get themselves together and begin the day. Asha calls for the shower and Grey dutifully heads toward the kitchen, fully intending to cook rather than print breakfast like Asha suggested-insisted he do.

            He greets Kara—hello, Grey, blah, blah, blah—and searches her inventory of recipes. This day somehow feels celebratory, and some gut feeling tells him that waffles are more fit for a celebration than pancakes. So, waffles it is. They have mix, and eggs of course, and the stove can transform into twenty-five spectacular kitchen attachments at the flick of a wrist—that Grey recites from the salesman, mouthing the words in imitation as he mixes batter. Asha had told him of her epically-long shower intentions, so Grey takes his time, grateful to lose himself in the monotony.

            But life seems to drag him back any second he thinks himself (finally) well-adjusted. This time it does so by the buzzing of Grey’s earpiece and Kara’s voice reciting:

            **“CALL FROM: UNKNOWN NUMBER. THE LINE TESTS HIGHLY SECURE.”**

            Grey casts a glance in the direction of the bathroom, but Kara, being the smart house she is, only broadcast the statement to him as not to pull Asha out of the shower. Creature comforts, huh? There was even an algorithm for politeness.

            “Kara, answer it.” Grey nudges the earpiece in his ear with his shoulder and continues mixing.

            _“Grey Trace,”_

“Hi, Eron. What, no how are you? No personal questions of well-being?” Grey tries to tell himself to tone it down; this Eron isn’t the same Eron who had his head speared by Stem in his own house. But he’s still the Eron of Vessel, powerful, volatile, and maybe a little unhinged. Grey stares at the waffle batter and tells himself to take it slow. Which, Eron has no problem of doing, judging by the anxious silence in Grey’s ears.

            _“You sent a note to me,”_ Eron finally says, voice fluctuating oddly, mechanically, and Grey wonders where the similarities between his dream and the real world end. Is Stem here too? Is that who he’s really talking to, who’s listening in Eron’s other ear, whispering answers?

            _Fuck_. He didn’t think of that. What would Stem already know? Does Grey have any valuable knowledge, or did he just seal his fate the second time by instigating this conversation?

            Everything is quiet; the shower is distant, muted, and Grey stops stirring to stare off into his thoughts. He almost forgets he’s on the phone until Eron murmurs:

            _“If you don’t talk I’m hanging up.”_

“Yeah, uh sorry, about that. Sorry. I did send you something, though. It’s about the car. Listen, it was a stupid mistake on my part but I forgot this one, very integral part from when I’d taken the engine… apart.” Grey can almost feel Eron’s scrutiny from 45 minutes away. He clears his throat. “I mean, you read the note, obviously. Great guy, that guy that sent it to you. Alex, I think.”

            _“You offered to fix it.”_

“Yeah, I did! Just let me know a time that works for you—”

            _“If it is broken how did you drive it to my house?”_ Eron fires the question off, emotionless.

            “Ya’ know, I’ve been trying to figure that out myself.”

            A pause, like the lean back of the detective in the chair during an interrogation.

            _“Why did you take so long to respond earlier?”_

“My wife’s in the shower. I thought I heard her calling my name.”

            _“Was she?”_

Freaky fucking kid.

            “No, no she wasn’t but it wouldn’t have been any of your business if she was.” Grey is willing to bark that response; he hears an intake of breath from the other end. Apparently Eron remembered social niceties after all.

            _“I’m… sorry. That was inappropriate.”_

Grey sets the mixing bowl down and quietly puts the spoon in the sink.

            _“Why don’t I just send the car back to you?”_

“No, no ah, that’s a bad idea.”

            _“Why?”_

“Well, what do you know about machinery, kid?”

            _“Cogs and gears have never been my interest.”_

“Well I’ll tell you that manual engines are quite fragile when not properly put together.”

            _“Is that so?”_

            “Yeah. And the less you move ’em in that condition, longer they last.” Grey doesn’t pause to analyze the bullshit that’s flying out of his mouth, but Eron’s a little sheltered, and Grey hopes to use that to his advantage. “Basically, just leaving it where it is and having me come there is better than trying to load it up and ship it back to me, get what I’m sayin’?”

            _“I… suppose so, yes.”_

“You didn’t drive it, yet, right?” Grey tries to cover all his bases. “If you did, it’s kinda’ a miracle you’re alive, just sayin’.”

            Again, rough silence, but this time it’s tinged with, what, embarrassment?

            “Do you even drive, kid?”

            _“I don’t_ have _to drive,”_ is Eron’s reply. Grey fights the urge to laugh out loud; that was a pathetic comeback if he ever heard one. But Eron continues, _“If you are asking whether or not I know how to properly operate a vehicle, I’ll assure you that I do.”_

“Great, then. Just don’t drive that one until I get to look at it, okay?”

            _“…alright.”_

“Great, so let’s set up a time, huh?”

            His eyes catch movement. Asha walks into the kitchen in one of his shirts, her hair wrapped in a towel.

            “What is all of _this_?”

            Grey shoots her a frown and tilts his head to show the earpiece. Asha’s lips clamp shut and she nods, makes a locking motion at her mouth, and then tosses away the imaginary key. Grey winks.

            _“I don’t often leave my house… your schedule is most likely the one the decision should be tailored to, not mine.”_

“Pff, what? Me, busier than the owner of Vessel Computers? Please.” From the corner of his eye, Grey sees Asha turn toward him, but he ignores her, for the moment. He hadn’t quite meant to say that, but oh well. At least everyone will get the same lie.

            _“The burden of being overly productive in youth, I think, is that after so many successes, success loses its charm.”_

The answer is cryptic and candid and Grey frowns because it takes him by surprise. Did Eron actually say something _personal_ to him? He decides that it’s just part of Eron’s game to throw him off, so he plays along.

            “Well, you gotta’ remember that some people never get to taste success _in their lives_ and here you are, master of all, practically.” Grey regrets the words once he speaks them, but he doesn’t let it show. “I think at that point you gotta’ reevaluate how you define success. And I don’t know, maybe fail or some shit.”

            The words aren’t overly poetic and their wisdom is more like “self-help for dummies,” but for some reason Eron seems to appreciate them. Or it could be another delusion, just Grey reading into something that isn’t there.

            _“I am free tomorrow.”_

            Of course, he had to say tomorrow. Grey takes a deep breath. His goal is to keep Asha and his mom out of this as long as possible, whatever _this_ even is. The eventuality of their involvement is possible, though Grey really, really doesn’t want it because putting either of them in harm’s way is unforgivable. So, not tomorrow. Sunday is family day, not cohort around with creepy kid geniuses trying to find out if you’re insane or if you just had one hell of a nightmare.

            “Ah, no can do on Sunday.”

            _“You prove my point.”_

            “Alright, cut it, kid. I’m not that busy. How about Monday?”

            _“Never come any later than seven in the evening,”_ Eron says, and the oddly phrased sentence cools the room a degree or too. Why the hell Grey would want to come at night is beyond him and the use of “never” as opposed to “don’t” makes it seem like Eron thinks he’ll be coming back. Which, okay, depending on how things go, maybe. But that doesn’t make it any less weird.

            “Okay, I’ll get there when I get there,” Grey sighs.

            _“See you… then.”_ The words sound positively painful coming from Eron’s lips and Grey spares a moment to wonder if the kid is just naturally odd or if he really isn’t around enough people to tell the difference. That was what the other Eron had told him, back then… or in the dream.

            Thinking about it too hard threatens a headache.

“So, let me get this straight,” Asha begins and Grey cringes without showing it. “You were on the phone with Eron Keen.”

            “Yeah, something about the car. I, stupid me, forgot to adjust something for him. I’ll be going over on Monday to fix it.”

            Asha moves behind him and tries to help, but he pushes her away.

            “Hey, now.”

            “I want to cook you breakfast, you know, that cliché lovey thing people in movies do. And that involves, incidentally, not letting you help.”

            With hands raised in surrender, Asha steals a strawberry from one of the bowls and laughs as she darts away. Grey watches her, thankful in every sense of the word that he’s seeing this, that she’s here. Asha settles on the couch and flicks through the news on the coffee table. His eyes linger but his own stomach is threatening to growl; waffles first.

            “You know, I just can’t believe it.” Asha’s voice is quiet, slightly teasing, slightly guarded.

            “What?”

            “That my husband, who works on cars, somehow made friends with the owner of Vessel. Not to mention his wife works for Cobolt. I’m sensing a bit of treason taking root in my house.”

            Grey doesn’t like the word treason. He doesn’t like the memories the word brings up. He also chastises himself for being an overly-paranoid nutjob and tries to smile away the amount of time it takes him to answer.

            “There’s nothing to worry about there,”

            “No?”

            “We’re not friends. We’re barely acquaintances.”

            “Mhm,” Asha hums skeptically. “Sounded like you were giving him life advice. That’s something that friends do, not complete strangers.”

            “Just playing along, that’s all.” Grey answers. Asha always was one to dig for information; he admires that about her, but now that he has to keep things from her, he loathes it. In games like these, Asha always beat him, every time they decided to play. And Stem isn’t here to tell him the winning move. He’s got to outsmart everyone on his own.

            “So he brought it up first?”

            “Brought what up first?”

            “I don’t know, whatever prompted your too-wise-for-your-years speech I overheard.”

            “He said something about how being successful young makes you unmotivated later on, or something. I told him that if he’s judging his worth by his success, changing how he defines success might make him feel better. It might create a new challenge to keep him busy.”

            Asha stares at him, her smile soft and… proud. Grey alternates flicking his eyes to her and breakfast, though he remembers the kitchen accessories can’t burn food—built in sensors. His gaze settles on her.  

            “When did you become so wise?”

            Grey can’t answer her, because he doesn’t know.

            They eat their waffles in companionable silence.

 

_..-. .- -.- . / .-- --- .-. .-.. -.. / .-.. . ... ... / .--. .- .. -. ..-. ..- .-.._

 

Pamela comes over on Sunday. The day is better than Grey expects. The three spend a longer time together than they had originally intended. They decide, after lunch, to drag Grey out shopping. He follows them dutifully, carrying the bags with a sense of pride and relief; it’s funny how people take so many things for granted. Even saying it in his head, it sounds overused, the kind of wisdom gained through completing a bathroom reader or the secret message spelled out when you finish an ancient newspaper puzzle. But, thing is, it’s true. He can walk. He can lift his arms. He can spend time with two people who mean the world to him. And he appreciates it now, knowing how he would feel if it suddenly became impossible.

The dream didn’t come on Saturday night. It doesn’t come on Sunday, either. Grey experiments with twenty-minute naps, to no avail. Or, perhaps, to his success. Nothing is out of place the entire weekend, the insistent churning in his mind reduced to commonplace anxiety. He feels like he’s living again, like he is in control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! This Saturday I won't be in a place where I can post so I thought I'd let this one out early ;)  
> Eron is my favorite character to write, hands down. I like how mysterious he is bc I can do a LOT with him.  
> On another note, poor Grey, playing with the big boys when he's just a "stupid" mechanic... I am also not a mechanic...  
> I started a debate over waffles vs pancakes in one of my classes...  
> Sorry this chapter was so short. I aim for 4k words but sometimes it doesn't happen. I let the story break where it feels natural, and that ends up making uneven chapters. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading! Have a blessed day!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...Eron?

Monday morning, Asha leaves for work. Grey follows suit, leaving the house just a little after her. But while she’s going to the office, he’s going to the invisible house of one of the wealthiest men in history to try and con some answers out of him, answers that may just point to Grey being mentally unstable. But if that’s _all_ it is, then he can make do with it.

            The drive out of the city is one monotonous traffic jam. Forty-five minutes turns into more like an hour and a half; Grey speeds down the narrow coastal roads to make up for ruining his own schedule. The sight out the windows fails to calm him. The deep blue of the ocean only reminds him of the unknown waiting in the darkness of his dream-room, which he has not seen in a full two days. It should make him feel better. It did at the beginning. Now? Now he is anxious, the traffic having worn on him, the outside world just as stressful as he remembers it. Maybe more so.

            Grey hears Asha’s words as he pulls up to the house and they echo like an omen: _So, what, he lives behind the rocks?_

            This is where it had started. This is where it ended. This house is a lynchpin, the fulcrum, the center of all his imagined woes—and maybe, if he’s lucky, it is here that he will learn that’s all they were: imagined.

            Grey traipses the stairs slowly, mulling over his plan, his words. The stairwell seems to go on forever, landing after landing, step after step. The maroon branches and leaves, when they peek into Grey’s vision, are welcomed. So are the cold lights and the straightness of the hallway. The emptiness is expected.

            It feels wrong to call out like he did the last ti—in his head. Grey continues forward, counting on Eron to find him before he gets too lost. The cloud is gone; Grey wanders in that direction, still curious about what the thing actually was, considering Eron’s earlier answer did nothing but raise more questions. The wall before him looks normal. No switches, or anything. No buttons. The thing’s probably voice activated.

            Grey glances over his shoulder. He’s still alone.

            “Cloud on.”

            Nothing. Well, then.

            “Cloud, activate. Turn on cloud. Summon cloud.” Weird. If there's no button, then it's definitely voice activated. Makes sense that Eron would only enable voice recognition for himself. Grey barks out a quiet, unamused laugh at thoughts of technology and control. "Fucking cloud," he says.

            _Oh, there it is._ The cloud appears and Grey stares at it until he realizes it’s expanding. He backpedals across the floor, a strange smile on his face. This thing is cool. Obviously it's a hologram. Obviously it's connected to Eron's crazy house. But whatever modeling the tech giant used is, well, for lack of a better term, beautiful.

            Eron’s voice sounds out of nowhere: “You can touch it, if you want.”

            Grey spins to find Eron staring at his shoes, hands in his pockets. The cloud thunders. Grey wonders if he knows that was uncomfortable phrasing.

            “So.” Grey fills the silence. “What exactly is this thing?”

            “It’s my cloud.”

            “And that’s what you said the last time I asked. Since I’m asking twice, I’m wanting a different answer.”

            “Are you naturally this antagonistic?” Eron peers at him, chin tilted down, face split by unruly blonde hairs. Grey contemplates the words and tells himself that Eron didn’t phrase that in reference to the string of brutal murders Grey committed in his mind, because he couldn’t know that. Grey contemplates it regardless.

            He settles for, “Not normally.”

            Eron’s eyes are shadowed, his posture turned totally inward. He shifts a little and opens his mouth but it is a while before his words pass his lips.

            “My cloud is an interactive simulation mapped to show a large body of digital information I command. My touch, in certain places, executes a command, like a free-standing holographic keyboard. The aesthetic of an actual cloud is… I just found it fitting.”

            Grey bounces his attention between Eron and the cloud and nods. He adjusts the strap of his tool bag and then jams his hands in his pockets.

            “No one speaks _English_ anymore.”

            “My jargon is only difficult because your knowledge does not lie in the digital.”

            “No shit,”

            “Well, don’t be upset. I don’t know a thing about what you do. That is the way of civilized society; it’s very rare to find a master of two things.”

            Grey stares at him and Eron stares back, mostly unreadable.

            “Okay, guru, speaking of what I do,” he cuts off to see if Eron can even pick up the insinuation. To his mild surprise and relief, Eron shrugs his shoulders and leans to the left.

            “Come this way, please.”

            It is at this point Grey realizes he’s become damn good at compartmentalizing. He follows Eron through his weird house, through oddly shaped rooms and normal rooms with oddly shaped things in them. His heart hammers against his ribs the whole time, especially when they pass the strange medical dome-- or is the proper term surgical suite? And then, after a small eternity, Eron leads him into a garage-looking area. Grey almost drops his bag.

            There are cars. Everywhere. As far as the eye can see. Rows upon rows in a warehouse style garage, organized by—get this—color. Grey smiles at the sight. Eron’s collection is so large it’s stupid. He has new cars, old cars, and ancient cars, all just lined up like exhibits in a museum.

            “Uhh, wow. That’s a nice collection.”

            “Thank you,” Eron says, and ducks his head when Grey turns to him. He removes a hand from his pocket and motions ahead. “I’ve placed it over there.”

            Eron’s car collection is a maze Grey would gladly get lost in. Either Eron is a secret car freak or he is using this as some mental test, because he walks the aisles confidently, knowing exactly where he’s going, like he’s done it a thousand times before. Maybe he's nuts, but Grey picks up a certain pattern from the way Eron's bare feet traverse the concrete, like he's being led, like following a string of fate. Grey follows a few steps behind him and tries to push that thought from his mind. He can’t help but notice the lack of electric cars.

            “So, you like old school things, too, huh?”

            Eron doesn’t pause. His mechanical steps never falter. He says, “There are some things that are better left untouched, yes.”

            Grey processes the answer in stages. It takes everything for him not to grab Eron’s stiff collar and shake him—some things are better left untouched? _You obviously didn’t think that about my fucking life!_ But he doesn’t touch him. Answers are more important than revenge. He breathes deeply through his nose and keeps Eron’s pace until they reach the Firebird. It’s in an alcove off the main showroom, alone.

            “When I buy a car, I have to think about where I want to put it. Some types of cars are harder to categorize than others.”

            “Shit, kid.”

            Eron cocks his head and scrunches his brows naively.

            “What’s the matter?”

            “This is… this is just an amazing amount of money, is all. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

            “Yes, it is,” Eron replies.

            He appears poised to say something else, but he never says it.

            “How many cars have you got, Eron?” Grey isn’t sure he wants the answer, but he asks because no to ask seems like a slight. Organized by the spectrum, displayed like trophies, the cars beg to be asked about. The garage in itself is a statement—this is property of Eron Keen, part of Eron Keen’s wealth.

            “Over ten thousand. 10,851, to be exact.”

            “Holy shit!”

            “There are five levels to this garage. The lowest level lets out at the cove.” Eron’s voice trails off, but Grey is still reeling at the number he gave. Maybe it’s inappropriate to fantasize about someone else’s wealth when you’re standing right beside him, but Grey does. He imagines, for a moment, what it would be like to be able to own these things, to have this kind of… elevation. Any normal person would blow it through drugs or sex. But not Eron, apparently. He’s not that conspicuous. It is in the spirit of that theme that Grey jokes:

            “Huh. Bet that makes a moonlit drive across the beach more accessible.”

            Eron swallows and blinks as though formulating a reply is a difficult physical task. He tilts his head and the stretch of his lips may be a smile, but Grey isn’t sure. Alright, maybe the tables have turned and that was a little inappropriate on his part, but he doesn’t really give a fuck considering who this man is and what Grey (thinks he) remembers he did to him.

            “I suppose it could.” Eron says. “But that isn’t what I use it for.”

            “No? Must be a shame for all those pretty girls that throw themselves at you,” Grey quips. Maybe it’s sadistic, but there's a comfort in seeing Eron so confused and vulnerable. It makes him feel a little better. It also makes him feel like an asshole who's lost control of his life. He shifts his toolbag from his shoulder to the floor, inwardly anxious. Even if equally rewarding, the small talk is nerve-wracking, the uncertainty staggering. Any minute he expects to hear Stem’s voice, either on the loudspeaker or just in his head.

            _You wanted answers, right?_ He berates himself. He’s too coward even to ask.

            “I use it for shipping, for pieces and parts of new technology.”

            _Ah, the subject presented itself._

            Grey kneels down, rummaging through his bag as convincingly as he can.

            “Hey, speaking of, I was thinking about that chip you showed me—”

            “Stem.” Eron answers with a speedy smile. Grey looks at him and fights the chill that spreads across his skin.

            “Yeah. If, let’s say, someone was paralyzed in an accident,” Grey fights to keep his voice steady. “Could that thing let him walk again?”

            Eron’s unsettling smile stays. He holds his hands behind his back, shoulders slouched. He looks more like a gloating teenager than the owner of a trillion-dollar technology corporation. Grey wonders if that’s how he actually is, or if it’s just another illusion.

            “What a specific question,”

            “I mean, it’s not, really. Asha and I were talking about some of the veterans at Cobolt, the ones she met. There was a fundraiser a little bit ago. People shared stories. I’m just curious because you said the widget—”

            “Stem.”

            “Yeah, it’s the reason Cobolt won’t become like Vessel.”

            “The reason Cobolt will never be like Vessel is because its management is incompetent and the quality of its products mediocre, at best. To succeed, one has to be ruthless, or at least unforgiving. Cobolt is operated by people who care, whose purpose is help others, not triumph over them.” Eron stares down at Grey, his face arranged in a calm smile. But really, it’s horrifying, because though his features appear gentle, his eyes are filled with ice. Eron leans down. “You have a twitch under your left eye, when you lie.”

            “When I—”

            “Let’s not play this anymore. Do you really think I believed that bullshit you fed me?” Eron’s smile disappears. What’s left is nearly a snarl. “The first clue for you should have been the garage. Would any collector be so ignorant about the things he collects? And, just now, if Cobolt was to have thrown such a heartwarming little party, don’t you think I’d know about it?”

            _Well, fuck._

            “Okay, okay.” Grey drops his gaze and stands, hands out at his sides. “Just let me ask one question,”

            “What?”

            “Why did you pretend to go along with this if you knew since I called you?”

            “Oh,” Eron’s expression changes in a second, the open malice drifting away like mist across the tundra. He grins. “I like puzzles. I wanted to guess your reasoning, but I can’t. So you’ll tell me, now.”

            _He’s going to think I’m insane_ , is the first thought that runs through Grey’s mind. The second is, _what irony, he’s nuts too._ Grey’s worry isn’t over Eron’s perception of him; it’s over Asha. He can’t lose her again. He just can’t. But even the alternative to insanity is disturbing. If this Eron is the same Eron, then how much of the dream was real?

            He really didn’t think this out well enough. His memory wanders to Serk Brantner and the way Stem guided him as soon as they stepped foot in the house. Grey isn’t a good liar. He isn’t cruel or calculated or any other thing that is checked off on a psychopath evaluation sheet. The only reason he got that far is because of Stem. Serk would have ripped his head from his spine and gotten away with it, too, if Cortez’s policework was any indication. His battle with Serk was physical, and he’d failed at that. This battle with Eron is mental, and he is failing at that, too. But if there is one thing Grey has on his side, it’s stubbornness. For all the fear and pain this short stretch of his life has brought him, he would willingly take on more if it meant learning the truth.

            Well, honesty is the best policy.

            “You’re going to think I’m insane,” Grey begins. Eron blinks at him and Grey doesn’t dwell on the words that he says. “I was in a car accident.”

            “Yes, you told me.”

            “I was paralyzed after the car accident. Five ex-military hitmen from New Crown, all with Cobolt implants and shotguns grafted into their arms, shot me in the neck with a medical gun. They murdered Asha.” It hurts to speak it, because to speak it means to grant it a place in reality, instead of Grey’s fucked up head, where it belongs. He barely registers Eron’s odd look before he continues, “I became a quadriplegic. I tried to commit suicide. I didn’t die and you came into my hospital room and offered to test Stem on me. I said no, you guilt-tripped me. It worked, but, the thing was fucking evil. We murdered people. We murdered the men who murdered my wife. I thought he was helping, but Stem wouldn’t stop! I wasn’t good at it, I couldn’t keep doing it! I tried to get him to stop but he said he couldn’t let us die, so to live we had to kill. He took over. He got control of my body and I had to watch while he murdered you.”

            The edges of the world grow a little bit darker, but Grey is too distracted by the torment in his head to notice. Eron moves toward him, wary, concerned. Grey doesn’t see him.

            “And then he was going to kill Cortez, so I, I had a gun. And I put it to my neck, where he was, just under my skin. I woke up in a hospital bed—”

            The last thing Grey sees is the bright fluorescent garage lights. The last thing he hears is Eron’s voice uncharacteristically colored by emotion. And that emotion is fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whelp, I think I forgot to upload... oops. Sorry. I'm also not real happy with this chapter so I may do a rewrite in the future...? Who am I kidding...?  
> Also, Eron is my favorite character to write. You'll all probably see that by the end of this work (if I ever finish this bitch).  
> Huge thanks to anyone reading this!


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